Fractured By The Fall
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: James T. Kirk was not afraid.


_Fractured By The Fall_

The U.S.S. _Enterprise _was like a bird. In space. That flew...in space.

Alright, James T. Kirk relented. Not very poetic.

A smirk spread on the young man's face, nonetheless. He'd have plenty of time to work on it. After all, he _was _the captain.

Oh, captain's chair, he sang to himself. How _comfortable _you are.

"If you plan on pissing yourself," Nyota Uhura muttered to the captain as she walked to her station, "try to aim the other way."

The smile melted into a scowl as Jim straightened in his chair and leaned against his arm, planting his feet firmly against the gleaming floors. "I'll be sure to aim right at you, Lieutenant."

She grimaced back at him as she took her own station, immediatly wrapping herself within the jargon of incoming foreign messages.

Spock's eyes flickered towards her as she passed, lingering long enough to summon Jim's amusement.

_Ah, young love, _he thought. The smirk returned.

A sudden, jarring jostle in the starcraft's outer frame sent him into mild shock, glancing up at the flickering lights and rapidly beeping computer monitors.

What _now_?

Since his first mission aboard the _Enterprise, _the entire galaxy took it upon themselves to send their most hostile, exiled criminals full force at the young crew. And, once more, his vacation wasn't for another two months.

"_Please _tell me it's not the Astrins again," Jim groaned, gripping his chair arm rest to steady himself as another jolt of weight shook the floor.

"Captain," Sulu called, furiously tapping at her keyboard, "we have an interference in radars."

"Denobulan signals, no incoming feedback," said Uhura, her eyes scanning the increasing length of paragraphs on her screen.

Kirk sighed in irritants, opening his mouth to order a bargaining, when...

A ship appeared. A _big _one.

Scuffed and dented, even from the distance, it looked like it had been through more then a few intergalactic battles in it's lifetime.

It's missiles, unfortunatly, seemed to be in full working order.

Holy...

"All hands at stations," Jim croaked. "I want full fire--"

_Bang_

And, there goes The Chair.

He fell on his elbow, but refused to panic. "Shit."

He was not one to panic. He was not one to fear. Anything. Especially an alien spacecraft a little too loose with their missiles.

He lay his palm against his toppled chair, noticing the rest of his crew half falling from their own seats. Chekov muttered furiously to himself,tapping his fingers against every screen in his arm length, his eyebrows furrowed together. Uhura was on her knees, still translating and calling out data despite the violent jerking of the floors beneath her feet.

It occured to Jim, just then, how young she was. How young they _all _were. And he was afraid for them.

Ah, hell.

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic_

_The appropriate human response would have been fear. Were you not afraid?_

He held his wrist up to his chin, gripping the shaking chair until his knuckles were white. Before the words could leave his mouth, another thrash force sent him stumbling back to his knees. "Chekov! What's going on out there!"

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic._

"Communications with vessel hostile, Captain," Uhura cut in.

"Keptian, navigation to--"

_Thump_

_Bang_

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic_

"Uhura," Jim croaked, his heart beating furiously in his chest, "negotiate a cease-fire." _Bang _"Sulu! _Sulu! Get us out of range!"_

Uhura began a robotic recital of an alien language into the transmissions screen. Sulu's muscles were taut as he gripped the steering device, barely swinging the helm an inch before another rapid-fire struck the starcraft head-on.

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic_

He's never afraid, James Kirk. He often denies the existence of the emotion, convinced that he himself is immune to such feelings. He's driven cars off of goddamn _cliffs _and kept a precarious smirk on his face. He cannot recall in his recent nor long-term memory ever hearing his own breath freeze and his heart smack his rib cage like a bullet. Never...never..._don't panic don't panic don't panic._

"Refusing all communications, Captain!"

"Helm engines inactive, Captain!"

Kirk, once more crouched on the heel of his foot, his hand clutching his chair, grounded his teeth. "Fire _everything! _It's a big ship, hit _something!"_

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic_

Data was spit at him from every hand on deck, all at once, all at once, all at _once. _He heard nothing except the _whoosh bang thump _of the walls around his ship--_his _ship--crack and groan under the pressure of missiles.

_Don't_

_panic._

If space could be called a sky...the sky was falling.

No, not falling. Exploding, imploding, bursting in a fiery stream of inferno that threatened to char all beings--living or otherwise--to bits of ash floating through space.

Maybe Jim Kirk is more poetic then he thought?

_Thump_

_Th-ump_

Big ship...don't panic_..._open fire...don't panic...hostile species...don't panic...losing man-and-fire power...don't panic...

"Damnit, call federation!" Jim called, and the deck lit up...

It all went very quickly, then.

The ship lurched, screens cracked with impact of...what? Was this ship large enough to warrant it's own gravitational field? Was he imagining the destruction of this ship? Was Jim slowly losing his mind to this unfamiliar panic dwelling in the pit of his stomach?

_Don't panic don't panic don't panic_

Was he imagining, as well, the blood running down his cheek, or the blood bubbling at Uhura's nose as she slipped from her chair and fell to the tiled floor. Or the blood sliding down Chekov's pale face as he continued to silently butcher the English language in his panic? Or the blood that stained Spock's--God, Spock--first officer uniform as he leaped...slow motion...from his seat and stumbled to the engine room, evenly speaking into his communicator with Scotty. Was he imagining all the blood, the blood on the floors and ceilings and air and hands...all the blood spilling on his hands, slowly, so slowly. The ship lowing control, the helmsmen fighting with the vessel, the communications officer negotiating, arguing, pleading. Losing...control.

_don't panic._

_don't panic_

_don'tpanicdon'tpanic_

Slow motion, all slow motion, Jim felt his vocal cords producing air, spitting it into action without much direction from his brain. Do this, Sulu. Say this, Uhura. Shut up, Chekov. That, this, that, all running on the rush of terrible adrenaline filling his veins, his stomach, his entire being until he was no long Jim or James or Captain, but an entity of blood and bones. Nothing but the rush and super-human anxiety that burst within him with every onslaught of force jostling his ship.

He had no idea what he was saying, but it seemed to make sense to his crew. Fingers tapped, panic silenced itself. Not rid itself, no. Silenced. Moments before vocal, a thing, almost another member of the crew. Now, it just clung to the air with the blood not there, filling their bodies like a disease. And, God the missiles and God the fire and _God God God_...

_Wait?_

Is that silence?

Is that quiet?

Are those the undisturbed crew members of the _Enterprise _mindlessly tipping and tapping away at their keyboards, the mild blinking from their post the only severe movement on the deck. Outside the vessel, nothing greeted James Kirk with it's frigid silence, it's unperturbed lack of movement. Just stars and goddamn nothing.

"Captain?"

Spock, with his shoulders square and his neck straight and his muscles taut, regarded him with curiosity, maybe the slightest glint of concern, but maybe that was a trick of the light.

So even tempered, so calm...

This chair that Kirk loved did not belong--in any way--to him. It belonged to Spock or Pike, not him.

"Hm? Yeah, what?" he said, not looking at his First Officer.

"You are troubled."

Jim let his pupils twitched towards the crew, all very obviously hiding their curious glances.

He got up, quickly, without meaning to, and started towards his quarters. "Spock, take the comm."

He new two things; One, that Spock wanted to follow him. Two, He would never leave the captains chair unattended. It was, after all, illogical.

_I can't do this..._

He doesn't now logic from a foot in his mouth. He doesn't think, he doesn't make decisions. He doesn't hold other people lives in his hands, and _he is not afraid._

He is James T. Kirk, goddamnit. He is not afraid of this ship, the people in it, or anyone else in the entire goddamn galaxy.

He's not very brave, either...

----end----

* * *

**A/N Uh...?**


End file.
